


But It Takes So Long To Come Back Up

by MickyRC



Series: My Heart Never Fell So Fast [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ace Friendly Relationship, Angst, Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Discorporation Mention, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Panic Attacks, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Stream of Consciousness, Whump, Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), everyone's fine in the end, they just have stuff to get through first
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21583270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MickyRC/pseuds/MickyRC
Summary: Something is wrong.  Something is actually, really really wrong with Crowley, and Aziraphale can’t figure out what to do.  There has to be—he must be able to help, he’s anangel, for heaven’s sake, but—but Crowley won’t look at him, doesn’t even seem tohearhim, and—and is his breath actually getting shorter, or is that Aziraphale’s imagination?orCrowley's panic attack, from Aziraphale's perspective.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: My Heart Never Fell So Fast [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555474
Comments: 11
Kudos: 300





	But It Takes So Long To Come Back Up

“Crowley?”

He knocks again, louder this time. Maybe the demon is sleeping. He isn’t _supposed_ to be sleeping; they’re supposed to be going out for dinner.

But he doesn’t come to the door.

“Crowley? Darling?”

Still nothing. Aziraphale hesitates. He doesn’t want to intrude on Crowley’s privacy, but… well, if something is wrong, leaving would be worse than a bit of embarrassment, wouldn’t it? He opens up his senses, feeling his way through the flat. There, in the kitchen, if his mental map is right. Crowley is in there, for sure, and presumably not sleeping. So why isn’t he answering?

He calls out again, and tries the door. It’s locked. Why is it locked? Crowley usually just miraculously dissuades humans from coming in. Why would he lock the door properly? Unless someone else did. Unless someone else is doing something they didn’t want interrupted…

No, no. He probably just wanted some extra quiet. Crowley is fine. He can feel the demon through the walls. He’s in his own flat, right there. He’s fine.

Except…

The image hits Aziraphale like a gut punch. Crowley, on the floor of his kitchen, lanky limbs askew, sprawled out and br—and _broken_ , just, just barely holding on, and Oh, God, he wouldn’t _know_ that, his sense only gives him a yes or no, a black and white view of existence or non-existence. Crowley could be seconds away from discorporation or, or—and he’d have no idea, wouldn’t know anything was wrong until—

“Crowley!” He pounds on the door. He’s fine. Crowley is _fine_. There is no reason to think otherwise.

Except that he _isn’t answering the door_. “Crowley, my love, just talk to me, please!” He can feel the fear bulky in his head, tingling through his shoulders and sending jolts right to his heart. Don’t panic. _Don’t_ panic. There’s no need for—

 _He hasn’t moved, he hasn’t moved at all, why wouldn’t he be moving unless he_ can’t _?_

That’s it. Terror overwhelms him and he _shoves_ his being through the lock and bursts through the door, sprinting for the kitchen and calling out, shouting, desperate to hear Crowley answer, to see him wander out confused and sleep-rumpled and _safe_.

Nobody answers.

His shoes slip on the slick tile as he veers around a corner. He catches the doorjamb and yanks himself back up, pulling himself into the kitchen, eyes already shooting around the room, looking, searching, pleading—

There, on the floor (oh, _God_ ). Tense, ramrod straight, sitting up over his knees ( _oh_ , God).

There’s no one else here, no sign there ever was. No sign that Crowley’s been hurt. He’s sitting up, his eyes are open. He’s fine.

He’s still not answering.

A wave of new dread crashes through his core. Crowley hasn’t responded to anything. He hasn’t even looked at Aziraphale since he practically fell face first into the room. And he’s, he’s—he’s so _still_ , so unnaturally motionless, like he’s not even…

“No,” Aziraphale is moving again, skidding onto his knees, “No, Crowley!” He’s still not answering, still not looking, still not moving. Is he breathing? Please, God—he doesn’t need to breath, strictly, but he does, he always does, has since, since the Flood, at least, he’s always breathed, always moved, always answered, and now he’s not, he’s not, he can’t tell if he’s breathing—

Frantic, needing to know (please, Lord), he presses a hand to Crowley’s chest. He is sure—he is _terrified_ —that he won’t feel anything, that his demon has gone still and cold, that he’s, that he’s—

But Crowley _gasps_ , sucking in air again, his chest lurching under Aziraphale’s hand. He’s okay. He _is_ breathing, he’s fine, he’s fine.

He’s… falling.

Shock, Aziraphale rationalizes as the back of Crowley’s skull hits the floor with a thud, he’d startled him, that’s all. No need to be scared, he decides as he frantically cradles Crowley’s head and pulls him back up. See? No blood, no sign of injury. He’s fine. He’s just a little startled, he just needs a moment to sit and breathe. It’s… it’s okay, of course he’s breathing fast, he’s been surprised. And a big, sudden gasp like that, no wonder he sounds a little hoarse, it’ll pass, just another moment and he’ll be fine.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, “it’s just me. You’re fine.” But there’s still… _still_ no response. It’s like Crowley can’t even hear him. He’s not looking at him either, just staring blankly past him, like he’s not seeing anything and the message hasn’t gotten to his eyelids. Aziraphale tries again, tries to get into the demon’s line of sight, to let him understand. It’s not working. _Nothing’s_ working.

Something is wrong. Something is actually, really really wrong with Crowley, and Aziraphale can’t figure out what to do. There has to be—he must be able to help, he’s an _angel,_ for heaven’s sake, but—but Crowley won’t look at him, doesn’t even seem to _hear_ him, and—and is his breath actually getting shorter, or is that Aziraphale’s imagination? No, no, it’s not, it is, and that look in his eyes, pupils much too wide and rounded, like he’s—like he’s _terrified_. His demon is scared, he realizes with horror, Crowley is so scared of something and _he can’t comfort him, can’t tell him he’s safe and home and okay, please, there has to be a way to get through to him, to wake him up, please there_ must _be._

Crowley’s chest shudders violently against his hand, and Aziraphale gives up on human methods. There’s one more sense he can appeal to, one other way into Crowley’s awareness (please please please). With a deep breath, he focuses his being and pours his heavenly spirit into the hand cradling the demon’s head. The power runs through his fingers, webs around them in an invisible light show and flickers through the bright red hair on the back of Crowley’s skull—and Aziraphale can _feel_ the moment he is heard.

He almost collapses with relief, knowing it worked, knowing he broke through and his demon is aware of him again, that he’s seeing, that he’s okay. Crowley’s hand comes up to grasp at his wrist (he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay). But then… why is he digging in his nails like that? He’s still scared, of course that’s it, he’s just trying to hold onto something. It’s a very tight grip, though. It… it almost hurts.

He shifts his wrist slightly, trying and failing to make the demon’s hold less painful. “Darling, what….”

He’s staring right past him. He can see now, Aziraphale can tell, but it’s like—

Oh, God.

Like he doesn’t know whose arm he’s holding.

“Crowley? Crowley, it’s me, my love. It’s Aziraphale. Okay? Okay, dear? It’s just me.” He’s babbling, he can feel the words come out faster than he can manage them, but oh, God, please, Crowley doesn’t know it’s him, he thinks it’s another angel, no wonder, _no wonder_ he’s terrified. “Just look at me, okay, love? Listen to my voice, it’s _me,_ Crowley, it’s _me!_ ” It’s not working it’s not working it’s _not working_ and it’s _his fault, his_ fault Crowley is so frightened, _his_ fault, he should _never_ have used heavenly power when he’s in this state, _how could he do this to him?_ “Crowley! Crowley, please, please, darling, look at me!”

The hands clenched on his wrist tense. Aziraphale is terrified ( _What now? What more can he suffer?_ ), but at least something has changed, Crowley’s not stuck anymore, at least—

He’s looking at him. Right at him, gold eyes against blue. That doesn’t… doesn’t mean anything, though, he knows that now, and when Crowley looks back towards the floor he isn’t surprised, isn’t any more heartbroken than last time. He’s breathing so heavy; it’s horrible, it’s like he’s running for his life, like he can’t catch up, like he’s—

“Aziraph…”

He’s— _he knows._

“ _Crowley,_ yes, yes, dear, it’s me. You’re fine, love, you’re alright. You’re safe.”

Crowley shudders, and Aziraphale feels his hands clench on his wrist—but not the nails anymore, just the fingertips, clutching at him instead of digging into his skin. Aziraphale reaches out, instinctive, protective, and has to stop himself. He’d hurt him. He’d _hurt_ Crowley when he touched him before, he can’t do that again, will never forgive himself if it happens again. So the hand that wants to embrace and caress just skirts over Crowley’s. _I’m here. I’m here and I won’t hurt you again, not_ ever _again, dearest._ And then Crowley, with a frantic jolt, catches his other wrist.

He’s still looking away, staring only vaguely in Aziraphale’s direction, but the way he grabbed him, the way he’s clinging, doesn’t it seem like… like maybe…

“Crowley?” he asks, soft, gentle, quiet. Please hear me, please hear me, please hear me. Please let me be right. “Can… can I hold you? Will that help?”

He waits, doesn’t push, doesn’t get impatient. He just waits, for any signal Crowley might be able to send. After a long moment, he feels a tug, ever so slight, on his wrists.

That’s it, that’s the signal! …right? Isn’t… but what if it’s not? He can’t—he just wants to—he can’t risk hurting him worse again. “Is that… Crowley…?”

He looks so distressed, he looks so hurt, he looks so _scared_ , and he pulls again (that must be the signal, right? Right?). And then he cries out, wordless. Something keening and broken and wailing. And Aziraphale goes to him.

The moment he gets his arms around Crowley, the demon shrinks, tucking his arms in and ducking his head, like he only wants to exist where he can fit into Aziraphale’s embrace. Aziraphale is fine with that; he pulls him in as close as he can manage, one arm grounded against his waist, the other up around his back, so he can feel his breathing (he _is_ breathing), can monitor the gradual slow down, can tell when the shuddering gives way to shaking and then intermittent shivering. He keeps his head down and close, so he can hear every sound Crowley makes, just in case he tries to tell him something. He won’t miss a signal again.

“You’re okay, dear,” he murmurs. “Everything’s okay. You’re home, you’re safe, it’s just us here. My darling, my love, you’re alright. You’re fine.” The constant hum of reassurances calms them both, reminds them both that they _are_ okay. Everything’s going to be fine.

Eventually, he feels Crowley move a little, twisting his wrists against his chest, and he readies himself to let go, to give him space, because he’s asking for it and so he’ll get it. But then Crowley’s fingers are curling into the front of his shirt, and he can’t help his grip tightening, because he’s _not_ asking for him to leave. He’s asking him to stay. And so he’ll get it.

His breathing has calmed to something normal. Maybe a little deep, maybe a little unsteady, but constant and slow. He murmurs into Aziraphale’s shirt. “Angel.”

“I’m right here.” He starts rubbing his thumb in circles against Crowley’s back, to remind him of that. “Are you alright?” Please, please you have to be.

He nods. (He _nods._ ) He’s okay. He’s fine. It’s such a relief Aziraphale almost misses his next words. “Thank you.” _He’s alright._

Aziraphale pulls him in a little closer. He can feel a shudder in his own breath. Trying to calm it, to keep his own fear away from Crowley, who must be feeling so fragile right now, he turns and sets a kiss against the side of the demon’s head. He feels the short red hair against his lips, and the warm air he’s breathing out onto his shoulder. He’s okay. He keeps himself there, cheek against temple, reminding himself. It helps, it helps so much, but he still… he can still feel his feet slipping on the floor, and the pressure of forcing himself through the lock, and the vacuum that opened in his chest when Crowley didn’t respond. It’s better, now. But the fear is still crashing down on him, and he can’t quite keep it in. “I was so scared.” He manages to make it a whisper. “When you didn’t answer the door, I was—I thought…” Crowley’s fingers tighten on his shirt, tangling in and holding him as close as he can. He’s fine. He’s fine. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Suddenly the circles his thumb is making aren’t enough. He starts to move his whole hand, smoothing over Crowley’s back, his waist, his hip bone. Easy, repetitive motions, looping around and around and around. Everything’s okay.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says. “Sorry I scared you.”

“It’s not your fault.” That must be clear. There is no room for Crowley to have the slightest doubt in that. Aziraphale presses another kiss above his ear. He is about to be a little bit selfish, and he knows it. He just hopes what he needs will be what Crowley needs, too. “Do you… do you mind if we stay here, for a little? If I keep holding you?”

Crowley doesn’t answer, not properly, but Aziraphale is ready for any signal now. He gets it in the form of the demon curling closer, clutching his shirt tighter and burrowing his head into his neck. It’s all he needs. The last of his tension comes out in a breath against Crowley’s hair, and the angel bundles his love in just the littlest bit closer. The littlest bit safer. The littlest bit more assured.

He’s fine. He’s fine, and he always will be, it’s just the two of them, and that’s all that matters. It’s okay. They’re both safe.

His love can answer him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! If you're as gone on these two as I am and wanna rant about it, I'm on tumblr [over here!](https://one-with-the-floor.tumblr.com/)


End file.
